Double Take (26 page)

“Bro, that police work is screwing up your judgement.” Max laughed. “Do you really think Dad stole money from a bunch of robbers?”

“No. Point five. The money was stolen from the robbers by a woman. Maybe it was Gemma.”

Max folded over one of the papers and tossed it aside. “Dude…did you actually meet our father? He'd never do anything like this.”

Trent reached for another paper. “So the robbers were caught, but the money was never found. It'll be interesting to see if they kept the case open.”

“Maybe there are records of the serial numbers.” Max picked up the bundle of twenty dollar notes and began to count.

As Max stacked the money into neat piles, Trent counted in silence too. “I'm only up to ten grand but there's no chance there's a hundred thousand here.”

“Maybe Dad's been dipping into it over the years.” But even as Trent said it, he doubted it. Their dad was frugal; he never bought anything extravagant and always seemed short of money. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced his dad hadn't touched the cash. With that established, only two scenarios fit. Either Gemma didn't leave him the amount she said, or someone else had access to it.

“There's $25,700 here.” Max added the last two fifty dollar notes to the pile. “Weird amount don't you think? I mean, if you're going to grab some cash, wouldn't you take a whole bundle?”

Trent agreed. None of it made sense. He went back to the newspaper pages and stacked them into date order. Six papers were in consecutive date order starting from 4 November 1992. Then there was a gap of five months, where another three papers were dated one after the other. The next one was a further three weeks after that. Four were approximately dated yearly apart and Trent realised these were the newspapers from Melbourne Cup day for the years 1993, 1994, 1995 and 1996.

The only one that wasn't around Melbourne Cup day was dated 13 December 1993. The headline caught his eye:
Donation saves robber's wife
. Trent's gut feelings about his dad became full-blown cemented proof by the time he finished the article. He took a deep breath and swallowed back the bile burning his throat. “Dad did it.”

Max cocked his head. “What?”

He shoved the paper towards Max but knew he wouldn't reach for it. “Someone anonymously donated $74,300 to the wife of the guy who robbed the bank. She needed it for a life-saving operation.”

“Huh.” Max rolled his eyes. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Everything! $100,000 less $74,300 equals $25,700.” He picked up a newspaper from 1992 and turned it over. His eyes snapped to a large photo in the top left-hand corner. It was of a run-down old shed. Suddenly a long forgotten memory hit him like a bullet.

Trent stood. As he paced back and forth, scrambled snippets of childhood memories clunked into place. Finally he stopped and drove his hands through his hair.

“Dad and Gemma did rob the robbers,” he said. “And it was our fault.”

M
ontgomery Steel tapped his fingers on his kitchen bench as he waited for the microwave to finish. The football was on in the background and he was shitty because the Brisbane Broncos were losing again. His favourite rugby team were having a crappy season so far. He cursed and clenched his jaw as he watched the Penrith Panthers make a run up the sideline.

The microwave dinged and he pulled his leftover spaghetti bolognaise out, grabbed a fork and his beer and walked back to the lounge room.

As he put his food and drink down he felt the familiar tingle along his scar. He reached up, touched the point above his eyebrow and traced the jagged scar into his hairline. The tingle was a sign. He'd never admit to any superstitious hocus-pocus, but whenever his scar tingled like a mozzie bite, something was about to go down. He couldn't explain it, but he'd long ago given up ignoring it.

As if on cue, his phone rang and he cursed himself for not taking it out of his pocket ten seconds sooner. Fumbling with the clamshell, he finally flipped it open, glanced at the unfamiliar number on the screen and then held it to his ear. “Steel.”

“Hey Sup, what's happening? It's Darren Eden.”

The man who'd once been his young rookie at Coorparoo Station was now a senior sergeant at a busy station on the west side of Brisbane. “Eden, how are you?”

“I think you'll be buying me a beer after I tell you what I heard today.”

“Hit me with it, and we'll discuss the drink of choice afterwards.”

“Do you remember Uncle Roland? He sat at your table at my wedding.”

Steel would never forget him. The bloke was one of the few people Steel had met who could actually drink him under the table. “Sure do. How is the old bastard?”

“He's all right. He called me last night. Says Jackson Rich had an interesting day at the prison.”

By the time he finished the call and said goodbye to Eden, his scar was zinging like a wasp bite.

No longer hungry, he tossed his unfinished dinner onto the already overflowing kitchen bench, grabbed his keys and headed for his car.

This was the first time Steel had been to the Brisbane Correctional Centre at night. The traffic was minimal for most of the way and he arrived in record time. Which was good, because he was getting dizzy from all the unanswered questions whizzing around his mind.

The lights on the prison's surrounding perimeter fence lit the sprawling whitewashed building up like it was the White House. He parked the car and made a beeline for the visitor area. Steel knew the drill and within fifteen minutes he was sitting in one of the interview rooms, tapping his short-cut fingernails on the metal tabletop. The door opened with a squeaky protest and he put on his most welcoming smile as Jack stepped into the room.

“Oh man, what do you want? It's not Melbourne Cup day.” Jack looked drained. No, that was an understatement. He looked more like he'd run a marathon in the searing desert and had failed to stop for water. He looked angry, too.

“Just want to chat.”

“Bullshit. You heard about yesterday. Still got your connections, I see.”

That was true. Even though Steel had left the force—actually it was more like driven out; Internal Affairs made it impossible to do his job—Eden helped him keep tabs on all his outstanding cases. Jack and the Case of the Missing Money was the last one on the list. He'd promised himself he wouldn't take up fishing until the job was done. And he was sick of looking at all the shiny new fishing gear he treated himself to from time to time.

“Take a seat, Jack, before you fall down.”

Jack didn't argue. The metal chair scraped along the polished concrete as he pulled it back from the table. Jack flopped down with closed eyes. He placed his hands in his lap and looked like he was exercising some kind of new-age measured control technique. Steel had heard about this meditation stuff. It was all bullshit as far as he was concerned. Finally the prisoner opened his eyes and he saw just how exhausted Jack was. Nearly a decade of guilt would do that to a man.

“Want to tell me what happened?” Steel said.

“No.”

“Want me to tell you what
I
know?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “No.”

“One of the prison guards just happens to be the uncle of my buddy Eden. He got a call last night to inform him of your…incident yesterday. Eden, being the nice lad he is, told me all about it.”

Jack sighed loudly. “Why?”

“'Cause he's a good bloke. And cold case protocol.” Steel waited for a response, but got none so he carried on. “He said you yelled the name Tiffany all night long.”

“You know that woman's been giving me nightmares for years.”

That was true. But when Eden had told him Jack had freaked out while watching TV, his coincidence-meter shot right off the scale. Given that Jack had pretty much played out his eight years inside without a single incident, whatever he'd seen on TV was worth knowing about. “Come on, Jack, I know you and—”

“You don't know me. Nobody knows me.” His shoulders sagged. “I don't even know myself anymore.”

“I know you saw something yesterday that flipped you out.”

Jack cocked his head and gave a look that implied he was the one holding all the cards. “I've got two weeks left of my sentence, Steel. Once I leave here I'm moving on. I never want to think of that woman again.”

J
ack was escorted by a guard to the metal cages in the holding room. Unsure of what he was supposed to do, he just waited at the unmanned counter.

Finally a thickset woman approached from behind the cage. “Name?”

“Hi, nice to meet you too.” Jack smiled, just to piss her off. There was never any need for rudeness.

“Just give me your name and number, wise-arse.”

“Jackson Leonard Rich, 166293. What's your number?” He grinned again.

Without a word she disappeared into another room and was gone for several minutes. Eventually she returned carrying a cardboard box with Jack's name and number scrawled in thick black pen across the sides.

She dropped the box onto the counter and then slid it through the hole in the cage towards him. Jack opened the lid to examine the contents. His total life possessions consisted of a wallet, watch, belt, pants, shirt and shoes. The stocky woman finished writing on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard.

She shoved it through the gap. “Sign.”

Jack gave her a salute before he obeyed her orders.

“You can put your clothes on in there.” She pointed over his shoulder.

He followed her finger to an unmarked door, and when he turned back she had already turned and was on her way out of the room. The entire handover had lasted just thirty seconds.

He scooped up his box and walked to the door she'd pointed at. Jack took his time in the room. This was the first time in nearly a decade he could get dressed in true privacy. He tugged on his old clothes and was thankful for the belt, because without it his pants would've slipped to his ankles. There was a metal bin in the corner. The lid was labelled ‘old clothes' and it was with pleasure that he tossed in his prison uniform.

Jack checked himself in the mirror, splashed water on his face and scalp and then smiled. He opened the flap of the cardboard box and again looked at the contents. Jack reached in, removed his wallet and flipped it open. His driver's licence was secured in the yellowing clear sleeve. He examined the ten-year-old photo of himself. No wonder his mother barely recognised him when she visited last year. It was only her third visit since he was incarcerated. She was getting married again, and wanted Jack's approval. Of course, he gave it. He'd never seen her look so happy, which was bizarre given that she was looking at her son through bulletproof glass.

He shoved the wallet into his back pocket. The watch no longer worked but he put it on anyway, then stepped back out of the room, wondering what he was supposed to do next.

He didn't have to wait long. Another guard appeared. It was Hank Williams. The burly guard had treated him well over the years and the pair smiled at each other. Williams led him into the next room and offered his hand. “Don't go messing things up, Jack,” he said.

Jack grinned as he shook hands. “No. Trust me, I won't. Thank you.”

Williams nodded. “Now sit.” Jack did, then Williams exited the room and the heavy metal door closed with a thud. Being alone was a luxury that had evaded him for years and he welcomed the silence like a long lost friend. His sentence was over. He was a free man, and damn it felt good.

The door opened again, and a man walked towards him whom he didn't know.

Jack refrained from saying anything and watched as the man settled into a chair opposite him. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as the man took out a manila envelope from his briefcase and placed it on the table. Finally, the unknown man leant forward, offering his hand. Jack hesitated for the briefest of moments—such gestures of implied trust and friendliness would take a long time to return. He liked that the man didn't try to dominate the handshake.

“Hello, Jackson, I'm Stanley McGill. I'm your guidance counsellor and my job is to help you settle back into the real world.”

Jack couldn't even think where he'd start. “Hello,” he said.

“Do you have anyone you'd like to contact?”

Candice instantly popped into his head. Her beautiful eyes, her gorgeous smile. He wanted nothing more than to see her. He then wondered if his mother would want to see him. He doubted it. She had a whole new life since she remarried. And her new husband treated her very well. The last postcard he'd received from her was from New Zealand. No, now that she was happy, he didn't need to lump his sorry arse back on her doorstep. “No,” he finally said.

The man gave a curt nod as if he were expecting as much. “We have your accommodation arranged for four weeks. And I've lined up some work. You start next week. The details are in here.” He slid the manila folder over.

Jack didn't open it. He hadn't thought about work. He could barely contemplate the type of work he'd do, let alone the type of person who'd be willing to hire him.

“You should go see this guy as well.” McGill passed him a business card. “He has the details of your brother's will.”

“Ahh jeez.” He sighed.

Thirty minutes later, Jack was standing at the bus stop outside the prison gates. A silver car pulled up and he watched in amazement as the window glided down. Last time he'd been in a car, you had to wind the windows up and down by hand.

“Need a lift?”

He couldn't believe it. “Steel! Bugger off.”

“Let me give you a lift.”

“I'm catching the bus.”

“Alrighty then. See you soon.”

Gravel kicked up beneath Steel's tyres when he sped off. Jack was still watching the Ford Explorer in the distance when the bus arrived. He climbed aboard and chose a window seat halfway to the back.